Resurrectionists
by venlo
Summary: The streets of Wizarding Britain are tense. Change is in the air. Plots abound. Nobody is safe. People are dying, and the dead - well the dead don't plan on staying that way. Auror Harry Potter investigates. 6 years after DH. My attempt at a horror/thriller/detective mashup.


**Chapter 1. Who You Gonna Call?**

_THE SIXTH! MINISTER PROMISES ACTION OVER LATEST KILLING! By Rita Skeeter._

_...Blaise Zabini, scion of that most ancient pureblood house, is the latest confirmed victim in the seven week saga. Urged on by Draco Malfoy and his allies in the Wizengamot, pureblood pressure groups are demanding protection, accusing Minister Shacklebolt of ignoring the danger this killer poses and wilfully turning a blind eye to their plight. In response Shacklebolt has reiterated his commitment to apprehending the co-called 'mad muggle', and urges the pureblood community to refrain from acts of copycat violence..._

* * *

The only sound was crunching snow underfoot as they stepped up the driveway. Dawlish had grumbled all day about the weather, about how he was two weeks away from retirement and didn't need to 'put up with this shit', but then there weren't many days when Dawlish wasn't complaining. For his part Harry didn't mind the cold. He supposed it connected with his inner child, the scrawny bespectacled kid who had been kept locked indoors to jealously watch the neighbourhood children build snowmen and throw snowballs. And although he knew he was too old for that now, he still liked to imagine nailing Dawlish with a fistful of snow sometimes.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry exulted in a new-found – for members of the Auror department at least – sense of relaxation. It had been two months since the last killing, and it felt like they were getting back into the groove after a long period of stagnation. As they reached the door the older Auror put a hand up to Harry's chest.

They both looked up at the building. Dawlish said, "I'll knock."

Harry didn't argue.

The house itself looked impressive – Gothic architecture, stained-glass windows, ornate balconies – the whole shebang. The sort of house that attracts ghosts like moths to a flame, which to Harry's mind was an extremely good thing. With the so-called 'mad muggle' having disappeared without a trace, and civil unrest disappearing along with it, a good ghost seemed the perfect way to inject some much-needed excitement back into the job. Assuming there actually was a ghost of course, and this wasn't another false alarm. Muggles seemed to have great difficulty in differentiating between ghosts and stray animals, faulty plumbing, or even medically induced hallucinations. Hell, Harry's first 'busting' job had turned out to be an extremely disoriented Dementor which had inexplicably gotten itself stuck in a Brighton housewife's refrigerator. Although in hindsight perhaps it was a good job that they'd received the call on that one.

Dawlish raised his fist to hammer the great lion-headed knocker staring balefully outwards, but the door swung slowly inwards before he could do so.

"Creepy," muttered Harry, but was left disappointed when a small, balding man poked his head around the corner instead.

"I was wondering when they would send some of your sort over. Couldn't have arrived a little more promptly could you?" he snapped.

Dawlish growled, bad-tempered. He was an older style of wizard who didn't take kindly to muggles giving him lip – especially not when they referred to him as 'your sort'. "Believe it or not little man, but we have better things to do with our time than wild goose chases like this. If it turns out to be the pipes, or the kids next door, or another goddamn fridge-dementor I will not be happy."

The man looked like he was about to ask a follow-up question, but at the look on Dawlish's face thought better of it.

Harry ignored his partner and stepped into the warmth. "Aurors Potter and Dawlish," he said gesturing at each other in turn. "And you are?"

"Sergeant Hollis, Muggle Liaison. And this is Mr Burton," he added quickly, stepping aside to reveal an even shorter, yet somehow fatter, man standing behind him.

"Like Russian dolls," Harry heard Dawlish murmur beside him.

Burton bowed. "I'm Master Cromwell's butler; I've been looking after the house whilst the... _thing_ has been here. How do you do?" He looked every bit the stereotypical butler; coat, tails, bow tie, monocle.

"Ah, so you must be our suspect," said Dawlish, chuckling to himself.

A constipated look, half fear, half confusion passed over Burton's face. "I assure you... I have no idea... please-"

"Relax," said Harry, shooting a glare at his partner. "He's joking. You know, the butler's always guilty? But this isn't a crime, just a busting right?"

"Yes, a... busting," said Hollis with barely concealed distaste. "Or as we prefer to call it, an _exorcism_. I think it's upstairs at the moment. We tried to lock it in the dining room, but, well, you know how ghosts can be."

"You mean the whole 'walk through walls' shtick?" asked Harry.

"Quite."

Typical Uglies. No sense of humour, no common sense either. Regardless, it was still a good sign. The fact that hey had tried to lock it in a room was a definite signal that the ghost actually existed. "And the owner of the house – Cromwell was it?"

"Scarpered at the first sign of trouble I bet, leaving you sadcases to deal with the mess?" interjected Dawlish.

Burton nodded. "Yes, Master Cromwell has taken an extended, uh, vacation until the problem is resolved."

The fact that the house was empty was all Harry needed to know. The Chief always frowned on collateral damage. Only Burton would need to be obliviated – they could let this Cromwell fellow simply believe he was losing his marbles; enough muggles believed in ghosts that another would simply be a drop in the ocean.

"Okay then. Hollis, you stay here and watch the hallway. Give us a shout if you see this thing coming past," said Harry. "Burton, you come with us."

At that the colour completely drained from the butler's face. Despite his bluster Hollis didn't look much better.

Dawlish pushed the butler in front. "You lead the way three-eyes," he said. Nobody could accuse Dawlish of being a subtle man.

Although it looked like he might faint, the butler didn't argue – fear of Dawlish seemingly conquering his fear of the supernatural. Harry tried to lighten the atmosphere with some small talk.

"So Mr Burton, have you worked here long?" he asked.

Burton squeaked sharply and for one perilous moment Harry thought he may have soiled himself. "Thirty years," the butler eventually uttered. "Ever since Master Cromwell bought the house from the strange family that lived here before."

That piqued Harry's interest. "A strange family. How so?"

"The Gamps. An odd family. Master Cromwell has tried to contact them on many occasions since, but they seem to have disappeared into thin air."

"Old pure-blood family, think I'm vaguely related" said Dawlish knowingly. "Not been seen since they went off to Transylvania on some errand for You-Know-Who about thirty years ago. Mundungus Fletcher swears he heard they got eaten by Vampires, but its probably a load of codswallop; you know, typical Dung. Still, it might explain this ghost."

Harry was about to agree when a piercing wail swept across the corridor. He might not have called it blood-curdling, but could certainly have gone for bone-chilling. "Where was that from?" he asked Burton sharply, only to notice the butler lying limp in Dawlish's arms. Well it had only been a matter of time.

"I'm not taking him downstairs. He fainted on you, he's your responsibility," said Harry, putting his hands up defensively, as if to absolve himself of any responsibility. _Logic at it's finest,_ he thought.

"Sod that," replied Dawlish. "I'll probably do my back in carrying this porker downstairs."

"Well you can't just leave him here."

With a thud Dawlish let Burton drop to the floor. "See that's where you're wrong. I can and will Harry, can and will."

Harry gave his partner a pointed stare, but eventually let it go with a sigh. "Fine then, but if he ends up getting possessed, you're the one dealing with it."

"Agreed," replied Dawlish with a grin. "Got my holy water right here," he said thrusting forward and grabbing his crotch. It truly perplexed Harry how someone of Dawlish's intellectual calibre had managed to pass the Auror's entrance exams. Noticing Harry's hesitance, Dawlish pressed home. "Not scared of the big bad ghost are we Harry? Do you want me to hold your hand?"

"You keep those hands to yourself Dawlish, I don't know where they've been. But in all seriousness, if you want to sit this one out, if you don't think the old ticker can handle it-"

Another high-pitched shriek rent the building.

"No need to worry about me," said Dawlish, casually extracting his wand from the sleeve of his coat. "I can handle screamers, it's just moaners I don't like."

Harry cracked a smile. "Yeah I'd heard that." He withdrew his wand too and nodded grimly, starting off in the direction of the noise. It was definitely a ghost then. Only ghosts sounded like that. The mournful wail peculiar to the long dead, not nearly as loud and shrill as that of a banshee, but still unsettling enough. Harry kept onwards, conscious of the heavy footfall and deep breaths of Dawlish at his back, until he reached a nondescript wooden door. A low, keening lament was now barely audible as he put his ear to the oak panel. Satisfied, he tried the handle, but it was locked.

"No problem," he murmured. "_Wingardium Leviosa._"

The door swung casually inwards and the two Aurors stepped inside, wands held firmly outstretched in their hands. Harry's heart thumped in his chest, body shaking with each beat.

In the centre of the room stood a small wooden trestle table, on top of which burned a lone candle, filling the room with a flickering orange glow. Beside the candle lay what looked like a child's porcelain doll. For a moment he thought it looked unnervingly like a sacrificial altar, but immediately put the idea out of his mind. No good could come from that train of thought.

With a start Harry noticed the quiet, sobbing lament was originating from the shadowed corner of the room. Raising a hand to bring Dawlish to a halt, he wordlessly conjured a ball of green light on the end of his wand.

It was most definitely a ghost then.

A translucent young girl sat in the corner, wreathed in green wand-light, weeping softly. Long silver hair hung forwards to conceal her face. Her clothes looked to be Victorian – a pretty dress and buckled shoes – but given the fashions of the magical world, it gave no clue as to when she might have died.

Harry let out a long, shaky breath, unaware that he had been holding it.

A slight, almost imperceptible movement at the edge of his vision brought Harry's eyes back to the trestle table, although he kept his wand firmly pointed at the ghost. It was the doll. The doll was _moving._

Slowly, agonisingly, the doll – the creature – pushed itself onto two feet. Harry momentarily held its button-eyed gaze. And then it winked.

Harry's wand arm swung back towards the doll. It took all of his restraint to resist blasting the knowing little smile off it's porcelain face with a well-placed _reducto_.

"Well," said Dawlish, breaking the tensest of silences. "That's a bit fucking creepy."

As if in response, the walls of the room began to stretch and dilate, undulating with some long-hidden, taboo power. The doll placed a scandalised cotton hand to it's voiceless mouth. Harry felt a chill spread up his neck as a barely perceptible crackle rose in his ears, growing into a roaring crescendo of noise and magic until with a bang the wave broke, drowning his senses and engulfing the room in a wave of raw magical power.

Harry heard a soft thud as Dawlish was thrown bodily against the wall behind him. This was bad.

None of his other bustings had gone like this.

This was very bad.

Harry swung his wand back towards the doll but with a jolt of cold fear, realised that his arm hadn't moved. His body refused to obey him.

"Only bad men use bad language. You're not bad men are you?"

Harry wasn't sure who had spoken – the ghost or the doll – and with a start he found he couldn't reply. He tried to swallow, to breathe, but the magic – the presence – was suffocating him.

"What... are... you?" he finally choked out.

Something giggled happily. "Oh I do so like this game, the question game. I'll go first." It wasn't a question. "What's your name wizard?"

With a surge of relief Harry realised he could breathe freely again, although his wand arm remained fixed in place. The girl in the corner continued to weep softly.

"Auror Potter. Harry Potter. At your service," he stammered.

"Ooh, a Potter! How exciting. Daddy always used to say the Potters were filthy muggle-loving blood traitors. You're not a filthy muggle-loving blood traitor are you?" the voice asked sternly.

"Uh," replied Harry lamely, unsure how to answer. "That's two questions."

The doll scowled briefly before reverting back to the same vacant smile. That thing was really giving him the spooks. "Okay then, ask me a question," was the disembodied reply. Harry guessed the ghost was somehow projecting it's voice around the room to freak him out.

It was certainly working.

"What are you?" Harry asked for the second time.

"I'm Katie. Katie Scratch-Eyes."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of bloody course that was the ghost's name. It certainly wasn't going to be anything non-creepy, like Becky or Paula or Janice. "Well that sure is an... interesting... name, Katie." He really didn't want to know how she had gotten it.

"Thank-you," it replied. "And now it's my go too!" There was a pregnant pause before it suddenly asked. "Why are you here Mister Auror potter? Have you come to help me?"

"In a way. I've come to 'help' you pass on. The Ministry sent me to stop _this_," he said, gesturing widely about the room.

"Stop? Stop?" it asked with the barest hint of amusement. The porcelain doll turned and blew out the lone candle. With a growing sense of panic Harry realised that the orb of light on the end of his wand was shrinking rapidly. With a fizzle it dissipated, plunging the room into darkness.

A gust of air passed over the back of his neck, making the hairs stands up. He could hear something breathing next to his ear. He knew he had made a huge mistake.

"You're not going to stop me, Auror. You are going to help me."

_She's just a little girl_, Harry reminded himself. A little dead girl. _If I can beat Voldemort I can beat this. _"No," he finally made out.

"Yes," replied the voice in the darkness. He could feel its breath on his face.

"No," he whispered.

"YES!" the voice shrieked, and suddenly Harry's vision filled an angry red, then just as suddenly back to blackness. It took all of his courage to stand unyielding, refusing to take a step back. He took a deep breath.

"I am an Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I will not be intimidated. If you have a problem you should have taken it down to the Spirit Division at the Ministry of Magic instead of terrorising the poor muggles living here. Now I'm going to give you two choices: I can exorcise you forcefully, right here, right now; or I can take you down to the Ministry where we can help you pass on peacefully. It's your choice." He sounded a lot braver than he felt.

The thing just laughed, a sound that chilled Harry to his core. "No Mister Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, _you_ have two choices: You can listen to what I have to say, or you can die. _It's your choice_."

With a pop the temperature in the room began to drop, and Harry felt the air being sucked out of his lungs – the ghost was suffocating him. With a sudden realisation Harry knew he was going to die here. In the cold, pitch darkness, with the unconscious Dawlish sprawled on the floor beside him, he was going to die. Not to Voldemort, not to any 'mad muggle' serial killer, but on a routine ghost-busting call-out. Oh the irony.

"So listen." Harry supposed he really didn't have much choice now. The ghost continued on. "Until now my afterlife has been an admittedly quiet one. I have whiled away the decades – centuries even – in this house, putting my second life to better use than ever I tried with my first. For I have long searched for the answer to life's greatest puzzle, and I believe I'm very close to the answer."

Harry had spent enough time around wizards with delusions of grandeur to know what that meant. Life's greatest puzzle. "Immortality," he choked out.

In the darkness the voice did nothing to conceal its excitement. "My word, you are a clever one aren't you? But I did say _I_ would do the talking." Harry's mouth snapped shut.

"But yes," the voice continued, now whispering in his ear. "Essentially immortality. I wanted to undo it all; my death, my afterlife. I wanted to corporealise, if you will. And I was close too, really close, before those big meanies stole my journal. You must find it for me. What do you have to say?" The voice paused expectantly.

"Oh goodness, I had quite forgotten – you can't talk can you? Or breathe," it added with he slightest hint of malice.

With a surge of relief, Harry opened his mouth, gulping down lungfuls of air. He panted, sweating, and eventually recovered his composure. "So let me guess; you left it in the cellar, or the mausoleum, or god forbid, the lake where those teenagers disappeared last Halloween?"

The ghost ignored his attempts at flippancy. "No silly, haven't you been listening? It was stolen. _Find it_."

"Why can't you find it?"

"Well I would if I could, but my powers are somewhat restricted beyond this house. So the task falls to your Mister Auror Potter."

With a shudder, Harry realised it had been a trap. The disturbance – the haunting – it was bait. And he and Dawlish were the prey. Harry was growing increasingly certain that the spirit – Katie – was no child ghost. It was one thing to talk about 'big meanies', but another entirely to be trying to undo death. Still if she needed him, he had the advantage.

"This was all purposeful wasn't it?" he pressed home. "You knew it would lure in some Aurors, some people who could find your journal for you, didn't you?"

With a burst of flame the lone candle flickered back into life, and Harry found himself staring into raw, red eye sockets. The ghostly child, Katie, floated languidly before him. She smiled widely, a predatory smile stretching from ear to ear. A small part of Harry insisted that mouths did not normally stretch that far. That it was _wrong_. It took every fibre of his being to to stare grimly back, holding its eyeless gaze.

"Clever," she murmured breathlessly. "Very clever. And as you can see, my ruse worked perfectly. Here you are, ready to help me."

"So tell me," said Harry, picking his words with the utmost care, "If you are so... powerful... in this house, how could this journal have been stolen without your noticing?"

"I was in the Other Place when it happened."

"The Other Place?" asked Harry with genuine curiosity. He didn't know much about ghosts, after all.

"Yes, the Place of Dreaming."

"You mean you were asleep?"

Katie Scratch-Eyes scowled, or as much as something without eyeballs can scowl. "No silly, ghosts don't sleep."

"Oookay," said Harry. "So correct me if I'm getting anything wrong here, but I think I've got this; You want me to find a random journal, taken by somebody – but you have no idea who – at some time in the recent past – but you have no idea exactly when, except that you were most definitely not sleeping?"

With a low howl of wind, the candle fizzled out again, plunging the room back into darkness. "Yes," replied the ghost. "I'm glad you understand."

"And when should I start looking?"

"Now," replied her voice in the black.

"Well you see, I _do _have other things to-"

"NOW!" screamed the ghost again, and the room suddenly filled with light. The candle flared, the light reformed at the end of his wand. But Katie Scratch-Eyes was gone. The room stood empty, but for a table, a candle, and a porcelain doll.

A moan from behind almost made Harry leap out of his skin.

"Merlin's beard Harry, what the hell happened?"

"A ghost happened," he replied, turning to face his partner. The blood pounded in his temple, and he was painfully aware that his body was shaking violently.

"Did you bust it?" the older Auror asked, seemingly none the worse for his episode of unconsciousness.

Did he bust it? Harry almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all.

"I think it's going to take a damn Pope to exorcise that little bugger."

* * *

Minerva McGonagall clapped her hands together suddenly. In response a miniature thunderbolt cracked down from the ceiling to thud into the tabletop. Since becoming Hogwarts headmistress she had revealed a flair for the dramatic to rival even Dumbledore, and on noticing Harry's scowl, at least had the grace to look embarrassed about the conspicuous scorch mark the table now sported.

"Now then everybody, settle down," she said, oblivious to the irony that she had caused the unsettlement in the first place, "I have an announcement to make."

Harry was not quite as scared now then he had been earlier – the alcohol having taken away some of the sting, and it was always going to take something special to top a psycho-ghost-girl – but scared he most definitely was. _You're an Auror, _he told himself,_ and the Boy-Who-Won to boot. This is trivial stuff._ Still, his heart hammered away, and even Ginny, clutching his hand and grinning like an idiot, did little to calm him. Actually that was probably exacerbating the problem.

Harry noticed that Professor McGonagall was giving him a pointed look. It must be his turn to say something. Slowly, awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, hi everyone," he started lamely. "Thanks for coming to this little party of ours. I suspect you know the real reason behind it, which is that I wan to tell you that, uh, me and Ginny – that is, Ginny and I – are, you know..." Harry gazed uncertainly at the gathering of familiar faces. They looked so expectant, but half of them knew already. Why was he finding this so difficult?

"We're getting married," Ginny blurted out, smiling from ear to ear.

Harry cursed himself for being so awkward, but Ogden's Fire Whiskey will do that to a man, and he was hardly at his most eloquent when at the centre of attention. Still, it was a poor excuse; he had known this moment was coming for the past six years, and the hard part – telling the Weasley's – had already been done. _No backing out now._

A crowd of well-wishers descended upon him before he could finish his train of thought, and he felt Ginny's hand slip from his own. It was quickly replaced by Hagrid's huge fist, pumping his own so vigorously that he was worried his arm might come off.

"Good on yer 'Arry," he managed to say before he was somehow elbowed aside by Charlie Weasley. His coat was quite badly blackened, and Harry wasn't sure whether it had been caused by dragons or the Grimmauld fireplace, which had developed a dangerous tendency to singe people of late.

Although slightly bewildered by the fuss, he supposed that it was understandable given that he was practically wizarding royalty. Despite his many protestations, shopkeepers always insisted that he take their wares for free (except, unfortunately, at the Leaky Cauldron); he always got the best seats at any Quidditch stadium; and when he had to interview witnesses the first five minutes usually had to be spent assuring them that yes, he really was Harry Potter, no, he wasn't pulling their legs, and yes, he would sign autographs, but only if they answered his questions first.

"Greetings Harry Potter, I hope your marriage will be an auspicious one," said a familiar voice. It belonged to the centaur Firenze. "Or should I perhaps say another one bites the dust?" It seemed to be his attempt at a joke. Harry laughed politely and shook the proffered hand.

"Thank you old friend," he said. He couldn't help but notice how every woman in the house seemed to fixate on the centaur. Even Ginny, Harry realised with a pang of envy.

He forced a smile anyway. It had been a week since Ginny had proposed – ever undaunted by social conventions – and he had accepted. Ample time to ready himself he had thought, plus the obligatory three hours in the Leaky Cauldron to boost those supply of readiness. And this was the easy part! Tomorrow's congratulatory appointment at the Wizengamot threatened to be even more tedious. _Such is the life of a war hero_, mused Harry. _Everyone wants to bask in the reflected glory_. Even if the glory was getting on for six years old.

For a moment Harry wondered how he had been dragged into all this, strong-armed by his old teacher into hosting a party in his own home – was nowhere sacred? Ginny had long been pressing him to move out of Grimmauld Place, but he'd stuck to his guns figuring that the forbidding old house would put visitors off. Apparently it wasn't working. It seemed like the entirety of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army was here. Sometimes he wondered why the groups hadn't disbanded, but now he knew why – to gatecrash private parties.

A blur of movement caught Harry's eye; Elphias Doge was beckoning him from across the room. "Shit," he murmured under his breath. If there was anyone in the known universe more boring than Elphias Doge, Harry would be very much surprised. _Time to put that Auror_ _training to good use_ he thought, quickly casting about for escape routes. His eyes alighted upon Hermione Granger.

Harry wasn't sure he would make it, but the time it took Doge to squeeze past the gaggle of girls surrounding Firenze bought him the precious seconds needed.

"So Hermione," he asked almost nonchalantly, whilst simultaneously almost falling on top of her. Such were the effects of three hours at the Cauldron. "Any expert tips for this marriage business I'm getting into?"

His friend smiled, politely ignoring his stumble. She pushed her brown hair out of her eyes. "Well I won't deny that Ron can be... difficult... sometimes, but I would hardly call myself an _expert_ Harry_._ And I know that you're only talking to me now to escape Elphias."

"Why that's pure slander," he replied with feigned shock. "I would like nothing more than to engage in a seemingly unending conversation about how young people these days don't know how good they have it, but unfortunately he seems a little distracted." Firenze had now grabbed hold of the old man, seemingly to use as a shield against his legion of admirers.

Harry was mildly surprised when Hermione took his hands in her own, a look of concern gracing her features. "Are you alright Harry? Rough day at work?"

Pah, she didn't know the half of it. Every time he closed his eyes he was staring right back at the raw, red sockets of Katie Scratch-Eyes. But that wasn't why he was unhappy. The reason he wasn't happy began with 'I' and ended with 'mpending marriage'. Luckily he hadn't quite drunk enough to put voice to those thoughts.

"You can say that again," was all he said.

"Is that so? I would have thought work would be easier with the, uh, 'mad muggle' having disappeared. Not just the killings, but the protests, that muggleborn family in Hogsmeade..." she trailed off, and Harry knew why. Nobody wanted to think about that.

"You know, when Ron first told me about him, the mad muggle that is, I thought I might be able to amateur sleuth it, but his modus operandi, if that's what you call it" - Harry nodded - "is so strange. Fascinating, but strange."

_Strange doesn't even begin to cover it,_ thought Harry. The 'mad muggle' nickname had arisen from his decidedly non-magical, decidedly unusual, methods. Of course nobody at the Auror office thought it _actually was_ a muggle, but you can't simply throw away a good nickname like that.

"I'm not sure we should have even been looking for the guy," said Harry with a smile. "Anybody who takes out Blaise Zabini can't be all bad, right?"

It had been meant as a joke, but Hermione's scandalised glare told him that it may have been misjudged. Aurors seemed to develop a morbid sense of humour that civilians just never seemed to get. He was grateful then, when his new fiancée intervened, apologising to Hermione before pulling him away for a kiss. Her eyes, however, told a different story.

"You were meant to be here at seven," she hissed. Now that they were somewhat isolated, gone was the smitten schoolgirl Ginny of minutes earlier.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I was held up at the office, you know how paperwork is..."

"Oh really. Well Ron told me you clocked out at five. So where were you? Actually don't answer that; I can _smell_ where you've been."

Harry couldn't deny it. After he and Dawlish had handed in their reports, they had gone to the Cauldron. It was starting to become a habit. Harry knew a lot of Aurors had a fondness for the bottle, but he hadn't expected to become one of them. Still there worse habits to have. Worse habits that _he _had.

Ginny's face had softened now, almost pleading. "Tonight was meant to be special."

"It is special," insisted Harry. "I'm here aren't I?"

And back came the angry face. Harry felt like he was looking down the barrel of a gun, his only consolation being that he was fairly sure it wouldn't go off with so many friends and family so nearby.

"Simply being present at your own engagement party isn't something to brag about Harry."

"Ron's not here -" he began lamely, but was cut off.

"Ron's not my bloody fiancée though, is he?" she snarled dangerously, poking him hard in the chest.

_Lucky Ron,_ thought Harry. Sometimes _he_ wished he wasn't her fiancée either.


End file.
